Bottom Of A Bottle
by HHHereComesTrouble
Summary: Everyone has their excuse. What's Stephanie's? She does it just to feel alive...HHH/Steph. One-shot.


So yeah, I guess I have this problem where I write lots of short stuff and never update anything? This is just randomness that's written kind of differently, but I had a bunch of free time this afternoon, and I figured since I wrote it, I might as well post. :)

* * *

Maybe, just maybe, you hate him.

Think about it.

His presence makes your skin crawl. His voice makes your ears bleed. When he enters the room, you briskly rise from your seat, gather your belongings, and leave without glancing back. When you pass him by in an empty corridor, you avoid eye contact, because you fear that if you look up, he'll be looking at you, too. You pretend to go about your business because you don't want that. You worry that it will spark something inside of you, causing your hatred for him to subside and something of a different nature to resurface. Oh, how horrible that would be for you.

_He _is horrible. He's out to make your life a living hell. When you're looking away, he's smirking in your direction – with that renowned, malicious smirk of his – incontestably plotting against you. The Cerebral Assassin, they call him. He intends to toy with your mind in ways unthinkable, because that's what he does. But you remember that's also what you do, and you briefly think back to a time where the two of you did that together. Side by side. As allies. As lovers.

Gross, you think to yourself. The thought of sharing oxygen with him disgusts you, never mind a bed. Now your mind is fixed on that bed though – the bed where he made love to you for the first time. In that house where he told you he loved you for the first time. He made you feel so vulnerable and weak. So naked. You felt naked long before he undressed you though. There was just something about him that made you feel that way. He would look at you, and stupid you, you would look at him, too! You saw the pure look of love in his eyes, and you know what? You loved him, too.

Terrified, you were. You weren't supposed to fall in love, especially not with this man. Your aspirations were ones for power and money. Things that mattered to you. But now _he_ was starting to matter to you, too, and that was scary on so many different levels.

Sometimes it felt as if he was the only good thing in your life…well, because for the most part, he was. Your family was broken. Your parents hated each other, and depending on the day, they hated you, too. Love was a foreign thing to you. God knows you never received any during your childhood, and sure you had dated before, but this love was nothing like that. This love mattered. You held onto it so tightly and with all the strength you could muster, because you were afraid of losing it. You were so paranoid that it would slip through your fingers that you ended up suffocating it in the process.

But what is all this talk of love? Love is now a thing of the past. Now you focus on hating. You hate him so much. You hate they way he chomps on his gum so obnoxiously, like he's just trying to draw attention to himself. He probably is. You know how much the spotlight means to him, and God forbid someone try to take that away from him. You hate the way he never actually finishes water bottles. You hate how his hair is always dripping wet, thus making everything and everyone else wet, too. Wet. He makes you unbelievably wet, and you hate that, too. But most of all, you hate the way he smiles at you. Not the way he used to smile at you, but the smile he occasionally sends in your direction nowadays, when you forget to avert your eyes. It's not even a smile, you convince yourself. It's that smirk again. You amuse him. Your misery is amusing to him.

A part of you wonders if it's quite possible that he's falling apart inside, too.

Wait, _too_? But that would mean _you _are falling apart. Are you? Don't lie to yourself.

But the truth is that you don't know the answer to that question. Sometimes you feel okay. Well, more like, for a few brief moments you can pretend you're okay. You can pretend that you don't miss him. You can pretend that he didn't mean everything to you. You can pretend that you still don't get that funny feeling in your stomach when he enters the room. Pretending is a wonderful thing, huh? It's like telling yourself lies and believing them.

Then there are the times where you're not pretending. Reality washes over you, and everything hits you all over again. He left you. He hates you. He doesn't want you. He's better off without you. You feel an ache inside of your chest, and you would guess that it comes from your heart, but you would rather it not be. This is the part where you're admitting the truth to yourself, but you're wishing it was all a lie.

So you stop caring. You stop caring about your health or your reputation, and you grab the bottle of alcohol nearest to you. You don't care what type it is, just as long as it gets the job done. And it will. So you proceed to drink. You drink until it hurts to think. You drink until it hurts to move. You drink until you really can't feel anything anymore. It's your favorite feeling, you think to yourself. Numbness.

You love it so much. You love being numb. You don't feel like yourself at all, and that's the best part.

But why would you spend the night alone? That's exactly what _he_ would want. His lips would upturn into a vicious grin knowing that you couldn't find anyone better than him. You're not looking for better though, because it simply does not exist. You are aware of this, which is why you willingly settle for less.

You locate your next victim at some bar. You wear something scanty, something that makes his eyes keep travelling down to your breasts. He probably tells you his name, but you don't remember by the time you've left the bar. It's a combination of not caring and the alcohol. You easily score an invitation back to his place. It's a shitty apartment, which leads you to believe he has a shitty job. Whatever. You guide him to the bed, swaying your hips as you do, and you can hardly see his face masked by the sheer darkness, not that you care about that either. He's one of the dozens, you think to yourself. As a human being, he is irrelevant to you. You just want to fuck him. You want to fuck him so hard that it leaves you half paralyzed. You want to lose yourself inside of this stranger and forget about everything.

So you do.

When the act is over with, you leave. He's out cold and won't remember any of this by morning. Neither will you. You never do, and oddly enough, you're fine with that. The only evidence of your night will be the insufferable hangover you'll wake with. Blurry vision and a throbbing headache – the usual. That's what pills are for though, right? To make the pain go away?

Right, pop a few pills, down a few shots. Problem solved.

So fast-forward and here you are now, leaning against a wall at the arena, but wishing you were anywhere else. No one is around, which means you are isolated with your thoughts. That's a dangerous thing, because now your mind is back on him. Hunter. You think of his name for the first time in a long time. You scrunch your face, because even that much is repulsive to you. Now you're a bit curious as to where he is though, because you haven't seen him around.

No, stop it, you think about him _way_ too much for someone you claim to hate.

But aren't you _supposed_ to think about the people you hate?

Do you _really _hate him though?

Could this hate thing you always talk about be something _else_?

Could it be love?

"Hey."

Oh God, you know that voice. Deaf, dumb, or blind, you would recognize it. Your own thoughts are now insignificant as you notice him standing there…with his stupid blonde hair…and his stupid hazel eyes…and his stupid low-hanging track pants. You scoff, because that's how you are. You make your abhorrence for him apparent. You look to his face, and something is off. His features…they're not twisted or scrunched or wrinkled even the slightest bit. For once, he's not smirking. His expression is serious, but you try not to care. You remind yourself that he's here to screw you over.

"What do _you_ want, Helmlsey?" you hiss.

He sort of leans in to sniff you, which is creepy, so you back away and narrow your eyes at him. Really though, you don't know how to feel. You like when he's close to you. Your body reacts to him like it does to no one else. The word wet comes back to mind. Is it weird that you get this abrupt urge to sniff him, too?

"Have you been drinking, Steph?"

The miracle that he called you by your first name is overshadowed by the inquiry itself. You want to slap him and tell him to mind his own fucking business. Slap him so hard that you leave a scarlet handprint on his cheek. On the inside, you grin. You've wanted to slap him for a long time now. But something else becomes prevalent in your thoughts, too. His question really bothers you, but why? Or maybe it's not so much the question, but the fact that he's waiting for an answer, and you have not a clue what to say. You don't care about your image, yet you don't want him to know you drink out of grief. You drink out of grief, and it's because of him.

So you lie.

"No," you say emotionlessly.

"Then why do you reek of alcohol?"

You chew your bottom lip, because you really don't trust him. He's up to something, and you feel like the more information you put forth, the more you're going to regret it in the long run. He inches himself a little closer to you. Something in his stare catches you off guard though. You want to think it's concern, but you also don't want to be disappointed if you're mistaken.

"What do you care?"

Good, avoid the actual question and turn it back around on him. Question _his_ motives. Because you really do want to know what they are. In fact, you're just dying to hear them.

"Stephanie, answer me."

"Hunter, you approached me, obviously for a reason, and I doubt that reason was to interrogate me about being an alcoholic. So pipe up, or get the fuck away from me, and stop wasting my time."

"Not until I get an answer."

His persistency is horribly frustrating, so you do the first thing that comes to your mind – the very thing you wanted to do a few moments ago. You slap him. A wicked smile crosses your face as your palm connects with his cheek, but then you remember who this is and how much bigger he is than you, and you back away slowly. He rubs his cheek where it stings, and then looks at his hand. You actually hurt him a little, and the best part is that you're not sorry.

"I see you haven't changed," he comments, rather coolly, which is shocking.

With the twisted sense of humor you possess, you find the irony almost hilarious.

Because you have changed. You're so different that it's kind of sickening. You drink, pop pills, and sleep around. You're an alcoholic, an addict, and a whore. But funny enough, you'd still take all three of those things over being his wife any day.

"You don't know anything about me. Stop pretending that you do," you snarl.

"I do know that I saw you in a bar the other night, hanging all over some guy."

Somewhat of a smile now graces your face, even though that shouldn't be the case. You should be wondering why he was at a bar, and why he was practically stalking you. But you're not. Instead, you just smile, because this is your chance.

"Am I sensing a bit of jealousy?" you ask in a sing-song tone.

"Not at all, Stephanie. Not at all."

"I fucked him," you explain.

"I don't care," he explains.

"I see you're still a shitty liar."

"I'm trying to help," he counters defensively. "I think you're making a mistake…"

You laugh, because you're actually making more than one, single mistake – including the mistake you're making right now. You're letting him suck you back in with those eyes…and those lips…and that body. And now you're fantasizing about him, even though you're pretty positive he's still talking. You don't hear any words though. Yours eyes wander over his body shamelessly, and you're so wet that it's getting a bit unbearable. You would take him right here, right now. You don't care if there are people around, because you're so turned on, and waiting is such a bitch.

"Look, look, look, Helmsley," you start, interrupting him. "You can pretend to care all you want, but I'm not going to. I don't _care_ what you have to say, and if you're so inclined to know the truth…I've been staring at your crotch for the past five minutes like a horny rabbit."

"This…isn't a joke, Stephanie. This way of living…it isn't good for you. Are you trying to kill yourself?"

"Now, I don't think you want to know the answer to that."

"Stephanie," he hushes, his gaze gentle and filled with fret. Your skin dances a little as he grabs your hand, holding it in his larger, warmer one. "Talk to me?"

"How unappealing."

"_Stephanie_." He says your name more sternly now. "This needs to stop."

You stare at him for a long, hard minute. Well, at least you presume it's a minute that passes. You tilt your head, as if you're deep in thought, and well…you are. Except they're probably not thoughts you should be thinking. You think of all the different ways you want him to fuck you. All the different places you want him to touch you. You moan silently.

"Steph?"

"Oh, come on, Hunter!" you order, violently tugging his hand, hastily leading him down the hallway to the nearest locker room. You're about to burst. You think that you can't wait another second.

But something peculiar happens as soon as you fuse your mouth with his, your tongues roaming each other's mouths furiously. Something clicks. This is wrong. All of this…is wrong. Your life…this is wrong. You don't want to drink anymore. You don't want to depend on pills anymore. You don't want…_this_.

So at once, you pull away, and he consequently wrinkles his brow, perplexed.

You look at him momentarily, and you realize something.

You don't hate him.

He keeps you sane. He keeps you stable. He keeps you from falling off the deep end.

"I love you," you say.

You don't know where the hell that came from, but when he smiles and wraps his arms around you, you're glad you said it. Maybe, just maybe, you need him. And as he cradles you in his warm, protective embrace, you realize something else.

Maybe, just maybe, he needs you, too.


End file.
